


Forged From Fire

by soupmetaphors



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Canonical Character Death, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2018-06-08 04:30:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6839125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soupmetaphors/pseuds/soupmetaphors
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The World-Eater has awoken, and the Wheel has turned upon the Last Dragonborn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_This wasn’t supposed to happen._

The last few hours rushed through her head, a whirl of sight and sound: The ambush at the border, the chaos as she was shoved to the ground, blade held to her throat. 

How the soldiers had made her wear rags, bound her hands, threw her in the cart with a group of ragged Nords. Goodbye to her nice, leather armor. Goodbye to her family bow. Goodbye to things picked up over her travels, little things that hurt now that she thought about them.

And for what? To come to Skyrim? She should’ve gone to Hammerfell instead.

_What have you done, my lovely?_ her mother’s voice whispered in her ear.

They were being forced to get off the cart- Her, Ralof, the panicky little thief, and Ulfric Stormcloak himself. It seemed to her like something right out of a bedtime story. 

“Step towards the block when we call out your name,” a man dressed in red and silver armor called out: An Imperial, from what she’d heard Ralof talking about in the cart. “One at a time.”

Beside her, Ralof sighed. “Empire loves their damn list.”

She said nothing. She didn’t know _what_ to say, whether it would be worth her breath. Looked towards the man holding the list. He was checking off their names, one by one. But why ever would _her_ name be there?

“Ulfric Stormcloak. Jarl of Windhelm.”

If her name wasn’t there, would that mean she’d walk free?

“Ralof of Riverwood. Lokir of Rorikstead.”

_Free and out of this mess_ , she thought. _Free to skip Skyrim until the war is over._

“No, I’m not a rebel. You can’t do this!” the thief’s voice rang out, and she turned in time to see him bolt pass the soldier with the list. 

“Halt!” someone else shouted.

The thief yelled something back, something she couldn’t catch over the sound of someone issuing a command, and the soft twinge of drawstrings as arrows were loosed.

Lokir fell, body ridden with arrows. She envied him, for a moment: Better die tasting freedom than die with your head on a block. Wondered if _she_ herself would make it as far as he did, but decided against it.

“Wait,” the soldier said, as she stood there, waiting for an execution she did not deserve. “You there. Step forward. Who _are_ you?”

Her feet took her forward, each step heavier than the last. 

“Avaen.” She eyed the soldier as he frowned, consulted his list. “Avaen Arrowless.”

“Not many wood elves would choose to come alone to Skyrim.”

She frowned, bit back a retort. Let him think what he wanted. 

The soldier turned away, spoke to another Imperial. His superior, by the deferential tone. “Captain. What should we do? She’s not on the list.”

“Forget the list. She goes to the block.”

“By your orders, Captain.” The soldier looked at her again. “Follow the captain, prisoner.”

_Prisoner_. Avaen could’ve just _spit_. No freedom. No second-chances. Of course not, what was she thinking? Hope was a foolish thing to cling onto, as experience had taught her repeatedly.

_How foolish_ , she thought, being led to the chopping block. _But something’s never get old._

She let her attention drift as the proceedings went on. Thought about her bow, probably snapped, lying in a bush somewhere back at the border. Her little gifts from her travels, gone. And here she was: Dying in a foreign land that she’d only been in for at least a day or two.

Perhaps Baan Dar was playing a trick on her. Perhaps.

A roar, albeit distant, brought her to her senses. The Bosmer tensed for a moment, looking around the town. No, nothing out of the usual.

“Next!” the captain called. “The Bosmer.”

She walked towards the block without a struggle. Why bother? At the very least, she’d go out with a fire in her heart.

Another roar. It sounded like it was coming closer. Avaen paused. She could see the soldier who had the list shift, uneasily.

“There it is again,” he said. “Did you hear that?”

The captain scowled. “I said, next prisoner!”

Avaen met the soldier’s eyes. He was frowning now, quite openly. But still he issued the command to her. “To the block, prisoner. Nice and easy.”

So she went. So she got on her knees, before being kicked down so her head rested on the blood. The air rushed out of her with a small gasp. She could still feel the remnants of heat from the block’s _last_ visitor.

Looked up in the sky, away from the cruel eyes of her executioner. She could see the tower, the brilliant but cloud-covered sky. 

_Y’ffre, protect me. Ban Daar, please have mercy._

She was a good Bosmer. She prayed to the gods, she had observed the Green Pact right up until she left to see the world. So she prayed that her death would be swift, if not painless.

_Have mer-_

The dragon emerged from the sky with an ear-splitting roar. 

And on her knees, waiting for death, Avaen thought that it was either a cruel joke or a blessing from the gods. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These chapters are (mostly) in non-chronological order! Just to let you know.

Her stomach heaved, and she had barely reached the edge of the stream before she threw up. 

Red splattered the grass, remnants of her last _meal_. The smell of iron rose quickly. It stung her nose, made her eyes water. Made her mouth _water_.

_No._

She struggled to keep control over her guts, fingers digging into the soft earth. Dragged herself towards the water. The moonlight glinted off its surface, and she focused on it. _Had to_ , with her hunger rising, stomach devoid of contents, meal all but wasted.

Her muscles ached. It wasn’t the good ache: Like the ache after a swordfight, like the ache she had when she saw someone she loved. This was bad. It screamed _wrong. Monster. Devourer of the innocent._

Reaching the water, the Bosmer stared at her reflection. She almost expected to see wings tearing upwards from the skin of her back, see flesh turned green, see what she had _accepted_.

But that was not to be. Her own face stared up at her, illuminated by the light of the moons. It was a face she _knew_ \- Short, dried copper hair. Red warpaint that made rectangles around her eyes, running down her face, down her neck.

_Like tears_ , an old Khajit merchant had once told her. _You wear permanent suffering, child_.

But it was her eyes that scared Avaen. They were bright orange and _hungered_. Always hungered, no matter how much she willed them not to. 

_Thrice-damned vampires._

She retched again, and her reflection disappeared in a haze of red that swirled in the water.

At first, it seemed like a blessing. To have such strength, such animal grace and savagery, all hiding beneath her skin. She had laughed and laughed as she tore the Dawnguard assassins apart. 

_Look at me!_ she had wanted to shout back. _Fear me!_

And here she was. Throwing up her insides, polluting the water, cursing her own foolishness. Her own stupidity, which had landed her into trouble countless times.

“My Listener?” 

The words came from behind, and Avaen closed her eyes. _Lucien_. She had forgotten he had been with her, aiding her in battle. 

“Go away,” she said, and winced at the hoarseness of her voice. “Go back to the Void.”

“I _was_ wondering when you would show your true form.”

She laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. “You weren’t surprised?”

A small laugh. “I had a… _friend_ who was a creature of the night, long ago. You do not forget how hunger for blood looks like, no, not even death may wipe that away.”

The Bosmer cracked open an eye. Her stomach burbled, at last attempting to settle down. She was met with the assassin’s gaze, a ghostly white-blue against the dark of the sky. 

“I’m going to get cured,” Avaen said. “I... I can’t go on like this.”

She knew that Serana and the others would see no fault in that. After all, she _had_ proved herself a valuable ally to them. A powerful one, even. 

Besides, it was killing her. She was sick of being blinded by the sun, of slavering over sleeping forms, of seeing a pulse move under skin all the time. She was sick of being something she couldn’t possibly be.

She was about to close her eyes again when Lucien spoke.

“A good assassin is not caught sitting among blood patches when the sun rises. Rest when we return.”

_Oh._

“I’m tired.”

“The contents of your stomach are all over this land. I daresay you _should_ be tired.”

But home… Where _was_ home, anyways? She doubted they were anywhere near Dawnstar, or even a town for that matter. Which hold where they in? Her memories were fuzzy at the edges, dripping with red. 

“Come, Listener.”

A translucent hand was extended to her. Reluctantly, Avaen took it, found herself being hauled bodily to her feet. She threw out a hand to steady herself as dizziness struck her. She wondered what would happen if she fell here and stayed down.

Nothing good, probably.

She wiped her mouth, shook her head just to clear it. Exhaled. Checked if her blades were still there, her pack. And once she was satisfied, she looked at Lucien.

“You know the way home, don’t you?”

“What use is a Sanctuary if you make no use of it?”

They walked in the dark, a slow and steady pace. There were many miles ahead of them, after all. 

And with each step, Avaen felt a little better. 


	3. Chapter 3

She ducked into the inn, still flush from the success of helping Calcelmo win the heart of the fiercest woman in the Keep. The Divines did not sit well with her- Daedra held better offers, made _much_ better friends. But who was she to pass up an opportunity to be rewarded?

Besides, Mara was one of the more _tolerable_ Divines, in her opinion: Her mother had taught her to- at least- revere her above the others.

Sat herself at the counter, rummaging through her pack. The innkeeper wouldn’t bother her- He looked busy enough arguing quietly with his wife in the corner, some minor issue that she couldn’t hear.

Plant samples crushed between strange tomes, letters stained by a bottle of mead that seemed to be leaking, an assortment of daggers, _where was it?_

_Ah._ Avaen brought out what she’d been looking for: A book, the symbol of Akatosh’s seal stamped on it. She’d grabbed it on the rush out of Helgen- An exploit that had seemed many, _many_ months behind her.

_The Book of the Dragonborn._

She had been reading it on and off, finding time to at least get a few pages done. After the incident outside Whiterun, the proclamation of “Dragonborn” on the lips of all who had been present.

The title was the _last_ thing she’d wanted, despite the powers that had come with it. Was she not just a simple traveler? Passing through the realm, seeking fortune and friendship, stories to tell the day she went back to Valenwood. Not _this_.

Flipping to the final page of the book, the Bosmer looked at the prophecy, mouth moving silently.

_When misrule takes its place at the eight corners of the world_  
_When the Brass Tower walks and Time is reshaped  
When the thrice-blessed fail and the Red Tower trembles-_

Someone was watching her. The prickly feeling of being _stared_ at cut through her concentration, made her snap the book shut in irritation. Placing it on the table, Avaen looked for the owner of the gaze: She had a bone or two to pick with him.

And found it was the Breton sitting to her left, slouched over several bottles. One of the few customers this late at night.

“See something you like?” she snapped, with a pointed glare to prove her point.

He made a noise that was half amusement, half disgust. “Imedhnain’s says you’re going to get the shipments back for Lisbet.”

Blinked. For a moment, she couldn’t recall who exactly these people were, and what exactly she’d promised to do. Then it clicked. _Lisbet. Stolen goods. Right._

“So _you’re_ Cosnach,” she said, a slight frown crossing her features. “Hired muscle. Don’t look like muscle to me.”

“Says the little elf. I bet I could take you on- Maybe you’ll think twice about hunting those Forsworn bastards alone.”

She leaned forward, frown growing. Who did he think he was, anyways?

_I can rip you in half,_ she told him, silently. _Like what Ulfric did to the High King, Torygg._

She was a knife in the dark, fearless adventurer. And wasn’t about to pass up a challenge.

Stood, pushing her stool back. “Fine. Let’s have a wager. Fifty septims each, winner takes all.”

“Done,” he said, and she crossed the floor and drove her fist into his jaw.

He stumbled, but righted himself before she could get another hit in. They circled each other. She wanted that fifty septims. But she wanted the satisfaction of victory more.

It was a messy dance, in the end: A punch here, a kick there, broken teeth and bloodied knuckles, scratching and yowling, until one of them was on the floor. The one which _wasn’t_ a Bosmer.

Straightening, Avaen drew a hand across his lips, tasting blood and triumph. “Cough up those septims.”

“Wait, I can still fight!” Cosnach said, trying to push himself up from his hands and knees. She waited. “No, no I can’t.”

“Thought so.”

Watched him struggle for a bit before sticking out her hand. He regarded her for a second or two before taking it, letting her haul him to his feet. There was blood running from his nose, but he seemed no worse for wear than she.

Fifty septims changed hands, and she smiled at the extra weight in her coin pouch.

“You have a good punch,” he said, as she sat back down.

“So do you. I guess hired muscle _is_ the right phrase then.”

A few moments passed. She gently probed her mouth with her tongue, wondering which tooth could’ve been possibly shaken loose.

“…You’re really going, aren’t you?” Cosnach asked.

“Of course.” She turned and spat on the floor, earning an outraged yell from the innkeeper’s wife. “No danger too high, no glory too bright.”

And then she leaned over the counter. “D’you want to come? I mean, I could always use a helping hand…”

“You don’t _have_ to-“

“Tomorrow, the stables.” Avaen was already rising from the table, shouldering her pack. She tossed a few septims on the counter- Something to make up for dirtying the floors. “When the sun is high. And don’t be late, alright?”

“Wha-“

“I said, _don’t be late_.”

Took three steps towards the door before she turned around, pointed to him. “You’re still bleeding. Wipe it up- You don’t want Frabbi to gut you, do you?”

She left the inn, the door closing behind it. It would be only morning when she realized she’d left her book on the counter, pages still folded where she’d stopped reading, prophecy half-hanging in the air like an omen.

 


	4. Chapter 4

_When the Dragonborn ruler loses his throne, and the White Tower falls  
When the Snow Tower lies sundered, kingless, bleeding-_

“- _Arrowless!_ ”

_Sundered, kingless, bleeding-_

“ _Avaen!_ ”

_Sundered. Kingless. Bleeding. The Snow Tower. Up high, where the winds whipped her hair and she wore fur: Wasn’t used to the cold, to the snow. You rarely got snow in Valenwood…_

“- _By the Nine, someone get her out of there!_ ”

_Bleeding. Sundered. Kingless. Valenwood, a million miles away, where her mother and father waited, waited for letters, she’d stopped sending them anything so long ago- They’d be worried, wouldn’t they? Worried and fret but understanding: They couldn’t hold her down, after all…_

_“-Get her_ out _of there! You heard him- Move!_ ”

She came to with hands under her arms, being dragged bodily across the floor. Around her, she could hear the clang of steel on steel, curses and orders being screamed above the noise.

Didn’t make an attempt to move until she was let go, propped up behind a chunk of rubble. Her gaze roamed, struggled to focus on the blurs and color of the world.

“… What happened?” she asked, voice tiny.

“What happened?” _Ralof._ She recognized his voice, the humor that barely stretched over to hide the concern. “You charged right _into_ those Imperials. Got hit pretty bad- What with the civilians running everywhere and the Imperials popping up left, right and center.”

“Are we winning?”

He laughed. “Well, I think our casualties are on the minimal side. For now.”

She struggled to rise, patting herself down. It wouldn’t be nice to go home in several pieces. How would she explain it to those waiting for her out there, beyond Solitude’s walls?

Managed to get herself into a crouch, peering over the rubble. The streets were littered with the dead and dying, those still standing battling it out. Gaze scanned for the one she was supposed to follow, lost in all the confusion.

“Where’s Ulfric?” Already her hands were searching for her blade, momentarily glancing down when she found it not hanging from her belt.

Ralof pushed something into her hand; she looked down to see her sword, familiar nicks and scratches gleaming in the midday sun. “Listen for his voice.”

“… Alright.” Adjusting her grip, Avaen vaulted over the rubble, wincing as she landed- Her leg felt sore, wet with blood. “Thanks, Ralof!”

“Give them trouble,” she heard him shout back, her feet taking her up the street.

The world seemed to tilt: Once or twice, she was nearly impaled, only managing to deflect attacks thrown at her at the last moment. Teeth gritted. Was that sweat or blood running down the side of her face? She couldn’t tell, not with the heat and the roar of sounds that crashed down on her like waves.

_Ulfric_. Searching for that familiar fur coat, the thunderous voice, pushing past Stormcloaks and Imperials alike. _Where_ are _you?_

The road to Castle Dour was paved with red as she went, sometime slipping, always taking the opportunity to slide her blade between the ribs of those donning red. Her mouth tasted salt, tasted iron.

And then she reached the courtyard, heard his voice long before she understood the words he spoke.

“ _Stormblade_ ,” Ulfric called to her, already at the door. Galmar stood a pace or two behind him, weapon dripping with red. “Come- It’s time to end this.”

Sprinted through the courtyard, catching the door just before it closed behind the two men. Slipping inside, she found the sounds of battle immediately muffled. And General Tullius and Legate Rikke waiting for them.

The door was secured at Ulfric’s request, and Avaen lowered her sword, still slightly wary. This war involved her in no way- The Imperials and the Stormcloaks were not her kin, and thus she held no true interest in their politics.

But she’d rather Skyrim be wild then kept on a leash. _The wilder, the better_ , her father used to say. Then again, he was probably talking about herbs he used to pick to make potions and not _civil war._

Held her tongue as they argued and talked. How could they take it so calmly? That men and women were dying out there, that frightened civilians huddled in their homes, while they spoke at length- Did it not _unnerve_ them, to say the least?

Probably not.

“-This is what you wanted?” The sudden rise in Rikke’s tone brought her to her senses. “Shield brothers and shield sisters killing each other? Families torn apart? _Is this the Skyrim you want?_ ”

“Damnit, woman,” Galmar growled. “Stand aside.”

Avaen shifted, uneasily. She had expected nothing but to barge in, to tear the leaders of the Legion to pieces.  She hadn’t known old wounds would rupture, scars ripping open in the final hours of this thrice-damned war.

“That’s not the Skyrim I want to live in.”

_No_ , the Bosmer found herself agreeing. _No, that seems like nothing but sorrow._

A bleaker land than it already was, slashed through jaggedly with a knife of greed and power.

“Stop.” Her voice rang out loud, and she felt all eyes drawn to her. “Rikke…”

She had not known this woman personally. Had seen her fleetingly, never stopping to _truly_ break into conversation. Had she not fled from Castle Dour hundreds of times, assassinations like morning chores? Rikke’s face was familiar. Who she was and what she stood for was _not_.

“Dragonborn…” the Legate said, as Avaen came closer, until they were but meters apart. “Perhaps this is the fate of Skyrim after all. To be destroyed from the inside.”

“You can still leave. Tamriel’s a wide place, for all the maps and books tell you.” A pause, her voice strange in the quiet. “You don’t have to die today. Not for anyone, anything.”

“A true Nord never fears death. It’s the how and why of it that one needs to consider.”

Avaen heard the hiss of steel, had barely enough time to raise her blade before Rikke’s sword came crashing down on her. She could see Tullius face the Stormcloaks out of the corner of her eye, but understood that this was it. That only few would walk out of Castle Dour with a pulse, with a breath caught in their throat.

“Rikke, please,” she got out, parrying the ferocious hail of blows sent her way. “Lay down your damn sword- We can work this out, we can-“

“How many the lives already lost?” came the grim answer. “What’s one more?”

_What’s one more?_

She dropped to one knee, as the Legate’s sword passed harmlessly overhead. As her own found purchase in her opponent’s armor and _twisted_ , plunging through flesh like cloth.

Felt Rikke stiffen with a gasp. Pulled her sword out, and stood just in time to catch the woman before she fell forward. Warm blood dripping between them. Rikke’s head above her’s: She was taller, heavier, but only giving the Bosmer the slightest strain.

_A warrior’s death_ , Avaen thought, standing stock still. _Gods forgive me._

Whichever gods that were still _listening_ , anyways.

“You didn’t have to die.”

The phrase whispered as she gently lowered Rikke to the floor, the Legate’s gaze glassy and far away, blood seeping through her armor.

A hand on her shoulder. Her title, spoken aloud, as she turned to look at Ulfric. He gestured to the floor: Tullius was on his hands and knees, wounded but not severely, attempting to rise.

“Will you kill him?” she asked, thinking she already knew the answer.

The one he gave her surprised her. “Galmar suggests you do it. A dramatic conclusion to our tale, wouldn’t it be?”

Bit her lip. Thought of Rikke, killed by a woman who worked for friends that stretched back through time. There was enough blood on Avaen’s hands to fill a sea, and she was _proud_ of that achievement.

Yet the civil war was not a story she ever intended to take part in.

“Fine.”

Ulfric’s hand fell away as she walked towards Tullius. His sword had been kicked aside, and she gazed down at him, glaring at her with baleful eyes.

Raising her sword, she drove right through his stomach, yanking it out with a twist and flourish.

He slumped sideways, hit the floor, fingers twitching, scrabbling, as lifeblood drained out of him. _Dramatic- What a joke._

“Stormblade.”

“… Yes?”

“I want you to have my sword, a token of appreciation.”

She glanced sharply at him, then shook her head. “No. Gods, I’m not taking that.”

For a moment, his eyes narrowed. For a moment, she thought he would simply thrust the sword into her hand, storm away. Instead, he exhaled, heavily.

“As you say.” Ulfric sheathed his sword. “Now then- The men will expect a speech. Will you stand by my side?”

She had refused his blade. She would’ve refused his speech, had she not seen what strange emotions had glinted in those cold, calculating eyes: A cross between anger and admiration, something she didn’t want to pursue.

After this, Avaen would do her best to keep out of Ulfric’s way. Best leave Skyrim and its own people to squabble over future politics.

A shrug. “Sure. But just this once, alright?”

Putting her own sword aside, she stepped aside to let Ulfric and Galmar leave first, before taking herself to the door. Paused once, _just_ once, and only to glance back at Rikke’s corpse, body probably still warm on the tiles.

And she heard Ulfric begin to speak, and slipped outside, letting the door close gently behind her.


	5. Chapter 5

The morning Vittoria Vici was supposed to be wed was situated in the week Avaen had promised to be at Riften’s chapel and in something that _wasn’t_ armor of sorts.

But the Brotherhood’s contracts had been upped, had been restored to their former glory. And Astrid had been adamant on sending her: The knife in the dark, the prized shadowchild.

So Avaen had agreed. Promised that she’d be there, that rings and vows would be exchanged, but- and in her _own_ words- _things couldn’t wait._ On the surface level, Cosnach understood. Understood that marrying the Dragonborn was no mere feat, let alone an assassin.

(She had been extremely tight-lipped about this. Yet Cosnach asked no questions and Avaen provided no answers. They both knew the danger of it all.)

Yet as of now, she strolled towards the courtyard of the Temple of the Divines, listening to the idle chatter and clinking of cutlery that made up her surroundings. She recognized most of the guests, dressed in finery, nothing but smiles and joy.

 _Not for long_ , she thought, hiding a smirk.

She nodded at those who caught her eye, tried not to linger for too long. Lingered by the food, pretending to drink a glass of wine, gaze searching over the rim of her cup.

 _Ah- There_.

At the first row of pews, the bride stood, talking animatedly to her fiancé’s mother, the priestess the Bosmer vaguely recalled. Such a lovely smile, eyes sparkling with all the light in the world. And such a beautiful dress, probably sent all the way from Cyrodiil, handwoven to the boot.

Putting her untouched cup away, Avaen straightened, walked towards them. Perhaps she should _congratulate_ Vittoria. After all, was it not a wonderful day, most blessed?

_Blessed by blood. By fire and salt._

Halfway there, she turned away, deciding _against_ the course of action. Let the bride have her day- Or what was left of it, anyways, time slowly ticking away.

Too little left to waste it by adding her own septims to the opinion pile.

Wandering away, she found herself going over the plan, which _was_ rather simple: Kill Vittoria, escape, and make her way back to Astrid.

But _how_ she would kill the bride was another story altogether. Astrid had pointed out it would be most prominent to cut her off mid-speech. Babette had spoken of a gargoyle, of how loose it was, wouldn’t it be a shame if someone were to push it off? Gabrielle mentioned a cache of weapons, ready to use.

Her gaze wandered upwards, and as expected, the gargoyle squatted above the balcony, like an omen on such an auspicious day.

(The guests would scream, naturally, when it would come crashing down. Vittoria wouldn’t feel it. Or would she? Perhaps Aesgir would. Maybe that would be death: A beautiful day, darkened to nothing.)

But _their_ afterlife played no part in her affairs. When she died, she’d leave all the daedra to squabble over her soul, with Sithis trying to grab her at the edges.

(If she had a choice, _Sheogorath_ would have her. Prince of Madness, lost soul, a face that wasn’t his. Was it?)

Shaking her head, she dispersed those thoughts, shifting her focus to the business at hand. Avaen moved off towards the Temple of the Divines, keeping her movements slow and steady.

Pushed the door open, giving the interior of the Temple a once over: Flickering candles at the altar, the sun filtering through the stained glass, shining down on the Eight shrines, and not a soul in sight.

Satisfied, she found an alcove to change, swapping her standard wear for her assassin gear, ears pricked up for any sign of intrusion. Occasionally, the sounds of festivity from outside would spike up: Vittoria’s laugh, the clinking of cutlery- But no one seemed to want to enter the Temple.

 _Easy pickings,_ she thought, as she shouldered her pack and started up the stairs. It didn’t take her long to find the door, and she smiled when she found the walkway, the gargoyle waiting like a loyal dog for her.

Crouching, Avaen crept directly behind the gargoyle, peeped out from behind its stone shoulders. Vittoria and Aesgir were already standing at the balcony, directly below the gargoyle.

“My husband Aesgir and I thank you for coming to our reception,” Vittoria was saying. “We thank you for sharing the love we have for each other.”

Avaen pulled back, glanced along the walkway. It led off the opposite direction, towards Castle Dour. If anything, she would at _least_ be able to leave in the direction she didn’t come from.

“Today, the problems of Skyrim are not my problems. Nor are they yours.”

Braced her shoulder against the gargoyle, felt it shift slightly.

“Today, we are joined in peace and happiness.”

There was a pause. Avaen could imagine Vittoria’s fingers interlacing with Aesgir’s, as she surveyed the guests, as she surveyed her future.

It was ironic, she thought, as she gritted her teeth and pushed harder. The already loose stone shifted further away from the platform it rested on.

“So, please-“

The weight of the gargoyle slid off her hands, and Avaen scrabbled backwards, flattening herself against the door down to the Temple.

A gasp, a scream-

A sickening crunch filled the air, the sound of blood and bone being pulverized. She didn’t move, frozen to the spot- But the sudden screams, the roar of the crowd, pulled her out of the daze.

 _They’ll be coming up to check,_ she realized. The Emperor’s cousin, of course they would check to make sure it wasn’t sabotage or an assassination. _Move, Arrowless, move!_

Started crawling down the walkway, first on her hands and knees, before struggling up into a hurried crouch. The noise was reaching a crescendo: Multiple voices calling out over each other, the sweet singing of metal as swords were pulled from sheaths.

“Check the Temple,” someone called. She hoped they weren’t thinking about the walkway. She prayed they weren’t thinking about the walkway.

“Hey-“ Looked up to see Veezara a few feet away, crouched next to the wall. “-Come here, hurry.”

“What are-“

“Astrid ordered me to keep an eye on you. Figured you could use a hand when the chaos erupted.”

Vulwulf’s voice thundered above the noise, something about killing the bastard who did this to his son. Avaen exhaled, slowly.

“I'll try and hold them off as best I can. You get back to the Sanctuary,” Veezara said. He patted her shoulder, moving up towards where the gargoyle previously way.

“Veezara, are you sure?”

He stood up, where the gargoyle had been. His mouth was moving- She had to strain to hear him over the sound of people shouting that _there he was! The murderer! An assassin! Kill him!_

“We’ll meet back at the Sanctuary! I’ll be fine- Go!”

He vaulted over the balcony, and Avaen scrambled up, breaking into a run. It was a blind scramble- No time to waste, no time to even figure a way to change into her civilian clothes, to turn from Listener to Dragonborn.

She ran through the streets of Solitude, ducking behind buildings and crates left out, waiting for guards to rush pass; pass the folks coming out of buildings to see what the commotion was; slipped through the city gates.

Onto the dirt path, and Avaen kept running. She just kept running.

* * *

 

It was raining when she rushed into Riften, having ran all the way to Falkreath to report to Astrid, and then ridden here as fast as she could.

In five minutes, the ceremony was due to start.

She had barely remembered to change out of her assassin gear- Her clothes were rumpled, her warpaint starting to run down her face.

Almost slipped when she went up the steps to the Temple of Mara, catching her balance just in time to stagger to the door, and come face-to-face with her guests, the priest, and Cosnach.

“Hi,” Avaen panted, shutting the door behind her. “Nice weather we’re having today.”

Several people laughed. Her eyes went over the pews as she brushed herself off, composed herself: People she expected to show up, people she didn’t, all looking at her, and she smiled back at them as she walked, slowly, towards where Maramal and Cosnach were waiting.

Once she was in position, Maramal started some spiel about Mara’s creation of love. She fought back a yawn, tried to focus on what he was saying.

“Busy week?” Cosnach whispered, his hand wrapping around hers. It seemed that neither of them was paying attention to the speech any longer.

“More than ever. Business seems to be booming these days.”

“You know, I was wondering what you would look like in a wedding dress.”

Avaen raised an eyebrow. A wicked thought flashed across her mind, and she bit back a laugh. “Well, maybe not today. But, well, if I make a quick trip to Solitude, I daresay I might be able to wrangle one.”

“Solitude?”

Maramal cleared his throat. “Do you agree to be bound together, in love, now and forever?”

Avaen could see the realization click across Cosnach’s eyes, as he said his part of the vow. She grinned at him.

“Don’t worry,” she whispered. “It won’t cost us a thing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i actually stole vittoria's full bridal costume + her ring. it was great.


	6. Chapter 6

Twenty-two days after she had killed the Emperor of Tamriel- the _real_ one, and not some decoy that died with his head in his soup-, she found herself standing outside Honorhall Orphanage, watching the leaves blow pass on the ground.

Cosnach stood several feet behind her, leaning against the railings of the canal. He refused to come in with her- Something about standing guard, something about her being better at the negotiations.

(She wanted to laugh. _Negotiations._ In this situation, it was almost anything but.)

(She wanted to laugh now, too: The Dragonborn, the assassin who had killed the Emperor, who had survived betrayal after betrayal, skirmish after skirmish, clinging tightly to everything- Hesitant to hold a child in her arms and call them her own.)

Avaen glanced over her shoulder at Cosnach. He had his head tilted to the overcast sky. She wondered what he was thinking, if it was along the same vein as her own thoughts.

_Come on. Let’s get moving._

Squaring her shoulders, she took the last few steps, and entered the building.

It was warm inside, the scent of cooking meat pervading her senses. The children were seated at the table, and Constance was presiding over them, ladling out more stew, encouraging them to mind their table manners but also eat as much as they wanted.

_A far happier home_ , she thought, as Constance looked up and caught her eye.

Avaen watched her leave the table, come nearer to the door where she stood. In her mind, the lines were running over and over again, a prepared speech on what to say. Yet when Constance asked her if there was anything she wanted, she found herself stumbling over the words.

“I’m, ah, here to- The couriers were sending out flyers, and-“

“Oh, of course! You’re here about the adoptions, aren’t you?”

Avaen nodded. “Is there a way to go about these things?”

“I’ll just have to ask you a few questions. Just to be sure we’re not sending off these children to live with families that are… _less than reputable_ , so to speak.” Constance gave her a smile. “But I’m sure that won’t be a problem with you. Now, let’s start off with what you do for a living.”

The questions were standard, and Avaen gave her almost standard answers, gently skirting around what she did for a living with a simple, modest shrug. Anyone could tell you who she was- Anyone who connected enough dots, that was.

(Not to mention the fact that she suspected Constance knew it was her that killed her erstwhile employer. But some things were better left unsaid, swept under the rug to be forgotten. _Forever_.)

“Very well. That’s all I need from you. Congratulations!” An offered hand, one which Avaen squeezed briefly. “I think you’ll be an excellent parent.”

“I hope so,” Avaen murmured. “Could you call Aventus here, please? I promised him something, some time back.”

Constance paused. Her smile wavered for but a second. And when their gazes met, Avaen knew that she knew. But no words were said upon the matter. Instead, she dipped her head. “Of course. I’ll send his things over as soon as I can.”

“Thank you, Constance.”

The Imperial went off to call the boy, and the Bosmer inhaled, deeply. It seemed so long ago that she had heard that rumor about a child trying to summon the Dark Brotherhood, and her trying to take matters into her own hands.

And where had all that lead?

_To a family. A family wrought with betrayal and heartbreak, and another destiny to fulfil._

But in the harshness of Skyrim, alone and lost, the Brotherhood had been the first to open its arms to her, and welcome her to this strange, new land.

“I knew you’d come back!” Aventus said, jerking her out of her reverie.

“It’s been too long.” She knelt down, absently brushed his hair aside. “I’m sorry I haven’t seen you since I dealt with our little problem.”

“It’s alright. I figured you grown-ups have _far_ more interesting lives…”

“Are you mocking me, young man?” Mock disapproval in her voice, rising to her feet. “You just wait until I tell your-“

_Father._ The word died on her lips. She didn’t realize she was holding her breath until Aventus reached out to take her hand, staring up at her with some degree of concern.

“Do you need to sit down? Constance says some people get dizzy when they stand for too long.”

Avaen exhaled, quietly. “No, it’s alright. I... I’m just a little tired.”

“Oh. Then maybe you should get some rest.”

“I will- As soon as you pack your things and Constance finishes her paperwork.”

He blinked at her, letting go of her hand, taking an unconscious step back. She saw the realization of what was occurring dawn upon him, a glorious sunrise- Cut short when he flung himself at her, arms wrapping around her midriff.

“No way!” Aventus said, voice muffled by the starchy fur of her armor. “Really? You mean it?”

She smoothed his hair back, smiling wanly down at him. “I mean it. Now, go on. It’s quite a long ride back home.”

His laugh was something Avaen had not heard in a long time: The sound of happiness, of innocence only unsullied by the most minor of amounts, a child’s laugh. It hurt her heart almost as much as it warmed her.

* * *

Cosnach was still at the railing outside Honorhall, but he had turned away from the doors, facing the marketplace. When Avaen called to him, he moved with hesitance she rarely saw, as if moving too quickly would throw the entire world off balance.

He looked uncertainly at Aventus when the three of them stood but a foot apart, staring at one another while the wind chilled their bones and the snow lightly drifted down on Riften.

Avaen could practically hear the millions of things running through his head.

“Would you like a ride on my shoulders?” Cosnach’s words were a rush, as if he had no idea what to say. She thought none of them did. “You can see the whole of Riften from up here.”

“That’s not true.” Aventus grinned. “No man’s that tall.”

“Or so you’d _think._ Here, I’ll prove it to you.”

He picked up the boy with ease, Aventus’ whoops of delight loud in the crisp air as the Breton started walking.

It was moments like these that made her stop and stare. Between the dungeons crawling with death and midnight assassinations, between plundering forgotten ruins and picking pockets of the unwary, nothing would be as satisfying as the moments she could snatch with the people she loved.

_No swords, no bleeding all over the ground._

She wondered how long it would all last.


End file.
